


Hold Close

by ConstantlyTiredReader



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Spicyhoney - Freeform, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus/Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantlyTiredReader/pseuds/ConstantlyTiredReader
Summary: When Edge decided to answer his phone during his lunch break, he was not expecting to need to go and babysit his alternate at Blue's request.But seeing Stretch clearly upset, all he can do is hold close and hope for the best.
Relationships: Papyrus/Papyrus (Undertale), Spicyhoney
Comments: 10
Kudos: 74





	Hold Close

When Edge decided to answer his phone during his lunch break, this was not the course he was expecting his plans to take for the afternoon.

Technically speaking, today is a mandated day off. Technically. However, life simply is not neat and tidy enough for him to let his guard down with time off. As normal as it may be, according to what he has heard living on the Surface, Edge hardly cares to allow himself to start getting used to slacking off; that position is already filled by his brother, thank you very much. No, today is his day to catch up on what has fallen by the wayside and to get extra work done early, damn it. 

Although, to be completely honest with himself, his plan isn’t going too well. As much as he tries, becoming accustomed to the unreasonable level of paperwork required on the Surface is a hassle — especially when he doesn’t have the excuse of patrols to give his mind a break and his body something to do. Edge is growing restless just sitting here.

So when his phone started ringing, Blue’s name clearly displayed across the screen, Edge hadn’t considered how his schedule could be altered. No, he jumped at the occasion, eager for an excuse to rest his eyes and to pace around his room, work forgotten for a minute.

And, that, naturally, is why he is standing here now, pinching the top of his nasal bridge while he clarifies, “So. You’re wanting _me_. To check in on _your_ brother?”

“If you could,” Blue unfortunately confirms. “I would myself, but I really can’t leave work right now.” Of course not. If he could, he absolutely wouldn’t be calling _Edge_ of all people. Continuing on with a hint of worry in his voice, Blue rushes out, “Please, Edge. I really don’t think Papy should be alone right now. I can’t tell you why — I wish I could, honestly I do, but it’s Papy’s reason to share, not mine.”

“Fine,” he surrenders with a bitten back sigh. Out of all the Sansy traits that Blue happens to share with Red, why is it that his tendency to be almost overbearingly protective of his brother is always the most inconvenient one for Edge?

Yes, and fine: Edge also agrees because he would like to consider Blue to be a friend. Sue him.

“Oh, thank you, Edge! I honestly appreciate it so much! Well, I’d best be going back to work. I’ll see you later!” He doesn’t wait for Edge to say a goodbye of his own before hanging up.

Taking off his narrow reading glasses — which do _not_ make him look like a little old human librarian and no matter what Red says, the chain around them is for both for practicality and to accessorise, so he can fuck off — Edge rubs a tired hand over his face. Well shit. So much for his plans. Now he needs to go and babysit his alternate. Joy of all joys.

Before driving off to find out why Blue is so insistent that his brother needs supervision, there are still some things Edge needs to do. First off, he sends a quick text to Stretch, just so that he doesn’t freak out when Edge picks the lock. Or he could unlock the door for Edge, he supposes. Experience is just leading him towards the most difficult scenario possible. He is talking about _Stretch_ , after all. From there, he works on shoving everything in his inventory for later. That way, Red — or Doomfanger, for that matter — won’t be able to mess with his system. Plus, who knows? Maybe he will want to pick up a coffee on his way back. That way, he can destress for a bit and get some work done at a nice café. Yes, that is an excellent plan.

Edge grabs his keys, hesitating at the door. There is still something he should do. Just in case. He strides to the kitchen, grabbing some monster food. Simple snacks, really, with a pouch of juice to wash it down. But all of it is filled with good, healing intent. It could prove useful, should Blue have understated his concerns in the interest of protecting his brother’s privacy.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, Edge doesn’t have to resort to breaking and entering the Underswap brothers’ home. As soon as he parks in their driveway, his phone chimes twice in rapid succession. Stretch. Curiosity piqued, he clicks on the messages.

 **Ashtray:** k

 **Ashtray:** the door’s unlocked so just come in

Strange, but Edge isn’t going to complain about his alternate being unusually helpful. He comes in.

The back of Edge’s spine prickles when he takes in the concerning scene. Stretch is at the table, posture unusually rigid as he stares vacantly at his laptop. Even obscured by an extra baggy hoodie to match his overly big sweatpants, he can see the way that his chest is heaving from halfway across the main floor of the house. The table itself is littered with items. Mostly stationary supplies: pens, sticky notes, lined and grid paper, erasers, and pencils. But now that Edge gets a good look, there’s also a bottle of honey, a tall, steaming mug, and an untouched, steamless plate of pasta. Stretch doesn’t seem to notice Edge’s entrance. From Edge’s point of view, it doesn’t look like he is noticing anything right now.

“I’m here,” he says gruffly, locking the door behind him. Something about this scene is disturbingly familiar, bringing him back to Underfell. Back to the days when he would return from patrols only to find Red slumped on the couch, breath reeking of cheap booze stolen from Grillby’s. Finding him there always brought a strange sense of relief; as much as Edge hated seeing his brother like that, at least Red was at home where he was safe rather than sitting as free EXP at his sentry station when he was half a step away from some kind of breakdown. Those were never good days.

“hey edgelord,” Stretch finally responds, about three beats too late. His voice sounds normal. Too normal. His tone might be able to fool most people, but Edge is well acquainted with forced normalcy. There is a slight waver to his voice, halfway to cracking. With each step Edge takes closer, he can see a faint staining of pale orange streaking down his rounded cheekbones. Tears, most likely. That would explain the pile of used tissues beside Stretch’s laptop, something he couldn’t see at first.

“Come,” Edge says, looking Stretch in the eye and stepping towards the staircase. Barely, he resists the urge to crowd Stretch in, to herd him along to safety; his alternate likely wouldn’t react well. Instead, he nods in gesture. “Let’s go up to your room.”

Thankfully, Stretch doesn’t fight him about it. Edge doesn’t know what he would have done if he did. He waits at the bottom of the staircase for Stretch to close his laptop. Slowly, he rises to his feet in the same way that old Gerson has to get himself up, hands fluttering before he shoves them in the pocket of his hoodie. He pads across the floor, his movements muffled by thick, fuzzy socks. Despite his slow pace, Edge doesn’t mind waiting for Stretch to get halfway up the stairs before following him. Instinct demands that he watches Stretch’s back. To keep him safe and help him feel safe. Stretch’s room, no matter how unpleasant for Edge, should be a safe place. Comfortable.

He hopes.

Stretch noticeably doesn't turn his lights on. Instead, he just hovers in the middle of his room, illuminated by the traces of sunlight let in by his thin drapes. Edge keeps the lights off too; if Stretch finds it too dark, that can be a problem for later. Angel knows that Edge has found refuge in dark, quiet places. It would be hypocritical to deny his alternate the same comfort. 

“you know,” he says, “you really don’t have—” Stretch’s breath hitches. “you don’t have to stay. i... i should be fine.”

Yes, because Edge is definitely going to believe that when Stretch is oh so tense, practically vibrating even as he is trying to fool him into thinking that everything is fine. Edge refuses to be fooled.

The room is shockingly clean, or at least compared to Edge’s original imaginings. The bed is made, albeit with wrinkled sheets and pillows askew. There isn’t trash heaping all over the floor; just a can close to overflowing. There are some grocery bags scattered around, but they seem new; Stretch seemed to need to focus to avoid them, which would at least imply that they haven’t been settled in for weeks on end. A collection of lighters is strewn across his bedside table. Mostly generic disposable, but also with the odd novelty barbeque lighter and vintage flint and steel tossed in. Edge removes a water bottle from the floor beside Stretch’s bed and adds it to the bedside table before sitting down. 

Clearing his throat, Edge pats the space beside him on the mattress. “Blue isn’t here.” This declaration gets Stretch to stop shaking for a bit, if only to blink at him in confusion. Damn it. He was hoping Stretch would understand what he is trying to offer here. “Do you? Hug?”

For a second, Stretch stares at him, blank-faced. Then, before Edge can think of asking again, he nods with a sniffle. “yeah.”

Edge nods back. “All right.”

Stretch rushes to the bed, hesitating only when he moves to sit beside him. Taking initiative, Edge pulls him in. All gangly limbs between them, it isn’t the easiest of tasks. Soon enough, though, Stretch is curled up against his side and a floodgate of fresh tears open.

Edge has no idea what to do now. 

Helplessly, he rubs circles on Stretch’s back, unsure of what to do other than hold him. Feeling each shuddering breath like it is his own, he tightens his embrace. Edge honestly can’t say if it is doing any good.

For Stretch, that is.

It’s strange. The longer they sit here on Stretch’s bed, the more relaxed Edge feels, even with the awkwardness of everything. How long has it been since he has hugged someone? Actually hugged someone; the human child ambushing him to wrap their arms around his knees for a split second doesn’t count in his opinion. Years, maybe, now that he thinks about it. In any case, he can’t remember touching anyone for more time than it takes to heal battle wounds.

It’s nice, though. Well, other than the crying, of course.

Minutes pass. Stretch, still half sobbing but mostly hiccupy at this point, pulls back. Edge lets him. His face is a mess, covered in tears and snot and what looks like Doomfanger’s shed fur collected from Edge’s sweater. Stumbling off the bed, he goes straight to the largest of the grocery bags on the floor. Somewhat frantically, he looks up to Edge with wide eyes. “hey, do you wanna see this neat new yarn i found the other day?”

“Yarn?” Edge says slowly, a sad pang hitting his soul. As genuinely intrigued as he may be as to why Stretch is buying yarn, he can’t help but recognise what he is doing; this is another thing he has seen far too often from Red. Trying to shove away any emotional problems with distractions.

“yeah.” Digging through the bag, he pulls out some chunky yarn in bright shades of orange. “i found it while i was wandering around the dollar store. dunno what i’m gonna do with it, but it’s really soft.” Stretch holds it out, a silent invitation for Edge to touch it. He’s right. “there was a whole bunch of it, so i bought like ten of them, i think.”

“That’s nice,” he murmurs, watching carefully as Stretch proceeds to rifle through the bag to show him the rest of his purchases. Several pairs of skeleton hand gloves to give to everyone. A variety of snack foods. Edge lets him dump all this information at him until his words gradually stumble to a halt. Then, Edge opens his arms once more, this time with far less hesitation. “Oh, Stretch.”

Dropping the honey bottle-shaped sticky notes back into the bag, he shortcuts over. It is much easier this time; Stretch crawls his way into the hug, settling himself in even as he starts crying once more. Edge just holds him closer, pulling a spare blanket from the foot of the bed to cover him. And, although he would never admit it, Edge can’t help but sigh at the relief of it all.

Selfish. As much as Stretch may want the hug, Edge’s motivations are selfish. He can’t fix whatever is the root of the problem is — Stretch would frown upon him murdering the person who upset him, assuming that is even the reason why he is troubled and angel knows that it would cause just as much trouble as it would soothe the LV roiling in his soul for daring to hurt someone close to him — but this? This he can do, and he will be grateful for it.

“sorry,” Stretch sniffles, his face still pressed against Edge’s side.

He sadly shakes his head, knowing that his alternate cannot see. “Hush,” he tries to soothe. The way he has to navigate this feels no different than figuring the traps and puzzles out back home; high risk, with great potential for failure, but the benefits of success make it so much more important to succeed. “There’s no need to apologise.”

“but—”

Lowering his voice to a murmur, Edge tells him, “You’re allowed to be upset.” 

Stretch’s reaction to those words is more easily felt than seen. First comes the quivers, the sound of his bones gently rattling in Edge’s hold. Then, more tears start dampening his shirt, silent but filled with emotion. Without thinking, Edge repeats that same sentence, scattered with reminders of “It’s going to okay,” and “Just let it out”.

Finally, Stretch runs out of tears. For now, at least. He looks up at Edge, eyes visibly watery but also strangely dry looking from all his weeping. He squeezes him a bit tighter, unsure of what to do now that the worst of the storm seems to have passed. Eventually, Edge gives up. Snatching a tissue from his inventory, he hands it over to Stretch. “How do you feel?”

“dunno…” A pause, his voice trailing off as he shudders closer. “head hurts.”

Edge nods, unsurprised. He may not be able to remember the last time he cried, but he does remember that the relief brought on by the literal outpouring of emotions was muted until his brother had forced some water into him to replace his spent magic. He grabs the juice pouch, punching in the straw for Stretch. “Here. Drink this. It should help.”

“thanks,” he says, a thread of sound. Before Edge can respond, Stretch’s brows crease, clearly perplexed, his free hand reaching up to Edge’s face. “i didn’t know you have freckles.”

Damn it. With today being his day off, he didn’t even think to cover them up with his normal light sprinkling of powder; the only person he was planning to see was his brother, who already knows about them and won’t think of him as being less intimidating for it. Fighting the urge to turn and look away, to slap that hand from his cheeks, to snap about how Stretch also has freckles and they’re technically the same person, design-wise, so what’s the big deal, he settles on saying, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Normally, this would probably earn a snort and a snarky comment about him being an edgy edgy edgelord; he can recognise it. Today, though, all he gets is an attempt at a smile. “well... if you have time…” His voice trails off, but Edge can understand the subtext.

The truth is, he doesn’t, really. He has so much paperwork to do. Meals to cook. Things to clean. What he should do is drive home, take his reading glasses out of his inventory with a pen and that mountain high stack of papers and get to work.

But Stretch… Stretch is more important. Like it or not, he is one of Edge’s own now, no matter how aggravating he can be. And now, now that he is asking, looking at him with a fragile, hopeful expression and tear-stained cheeks? What other choice does he have?

“I have time,” he decides. Fuck his work; worst-case scenario, he pulls an all-nighter to get caught back up where he wants to be. It isn’t like he needs the sleep, after all.

This is more important.


End file.
